


Feel Sorry For Me

by maedhbros



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:48:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maedhbros/pseuds/maedhbros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Dagor Dagorath, Melkor and Mairon are irritating prisoners.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel Sorry For Me

Manwë is not an angry god. He is not jealous, nor wrathful, he is kind, just, and perhaps the most level-headed among the Valar.

 

Manwë is going to kill his fucking brother.

 

A loud moan jolts him out of his reverie, the thick stone walls separating him from Melkor and Mairon’s rooms barely muting the noise. Manwë buries his head even further into his hands, the pile of letters and reconstruction plans on the table before him abandoned until a quieter time. He half-wishes he had listened to his wife before agreeing to play Warden for the two of them.

 

As if on cue, Varda opens the door to his study without bothering to knock. He lifts his head to see her glaring at him pointedly. “How long are you going to be feeling sorry for yourself?”

 

“I have every right to pity myself. _You_ should be the one feeling sorry for me. They’ve been going on like this for three days.”

 

Varda rolls her eyes. “It can’t be that bad, and in any case, you deserve it for agreeing to let them stay together.”

 

“It is that bad. It’s awful. I’m beginning to wonder if Melkor’s gotten stuck–”

 

“If you finish that thought I will _personally_ inform Fëanor that Bauglir is spending his sentence rolling around in bed and leave you to clean up the mess.”

 

“I can’t sleep!”

 

“You don’t _need_ to sleep. Have you ever even–never mind.” Varda’s face softens into almost a smile. She starts explaining the orders he needs to give, the plans for peace between the defeated armies and their place in Arda Remade until she’s interrupted by a loud _crack_.

 

“That was the bed,” Manwë answers at her shocked expression.

 

“Another one?! That’s the–”

 

“Third one this month.”

 

Varda’s lips press into a thin, disgusted line. “That was Noldorian made; they were stripped of their powers, for Eru’s sake, how did they even...” she trails off, still staring at the wall, and shakes her head. “Well, it’s not like it’s nothing you can handle–was that a _giggle?!_ ”

 

Soft laughter is coming from Melkor’s rooms, and it is clearly from two very different voices.

Manwë peeks at his wife through his fingers, and looks sheepishly at her horrified face.

 

“I can’t believe–that is _vile_! This is supposed to be _punishment?_ What–I’m leaving,” she declares, walking swiftly toward the door with her hand pressed to her mouth.

 

“Could you try and bribe the Dwarves for some mithril? Supposing they won’t find a way to break that as well,” he calls after her, receiving a string of muffled Secondborn curses in return.

 

Manwë is tolerant. Manwë is the King of the Valar, an ancient God who should be far removed from any inclination to pettiness.

 

Manwë is _definitely_ going to kill his fucking brother.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the terrible title.


End file.
